>arbeit macht frei

>auschwitz-birkenau.

i am a damaged female.

the tour bus sped at alarming speeds through the forests outside of krakow. it was like the deeper we zoomed through the trees, the faster and deeper into hell we descended. i looked to see signs of the death marches that occured in the secrecy of these forests. my heart was a broken wagon on the dirt road.

first stop, auschwitz. oswiecim. whatever you want to call it.

arbeit macht frei.

electrified barbed wire fences everywhere.

guard towers that reflect my visage. i could see the shadows of their reflections in my own.

mounds and mounds and mounds and mounds and mounds and mounds of . . .

shaved hair used to make rugs.

shoes. 80,000 shoes. tattered and worn. but still carrying colour. little red bows. strappy blue buckles. thick heels and delicate laces. shoes i would have worn. one amongst the the pile. a number. inconsequential.

i am an individual silenced, my shoes at the bottom.

suitcases with my name in chalk. born 1941. an infant when i died. more suitcases than life.

glasses, the wires interwined endlessly like a rope. lenses broken. i wonder who used to carefully clean those lenses before placing them gently on the bridge of their noses.

the gallows.

the gas chamber. i stand in the spot where thousands clawed at the doors, the walls, each other. i stand in the spot where i died. the cement walls echo screams. the vents shrieking zykon b.

i’m losing it, i’m losing it.

the crematoriums. ashes on my feet, inside the depths of the ovens. don’t touch me, i can’t hold it together.

walk out into the beautiful day. the sky is playing a game of red-rover. buttercups and light and chirps.

if it wasn’t a death camp, you’d think it was a lovely retirement home. architecture and amber grass and lush green forests like something out of dickens.

birkenau.

the train tracks go on forever.

the barracks. toilets without sewage pipes in the summer. bed collapsing with disease. showers and food and atrocities. children gauzed into the night.

they disappear like passing clouds.

the ride back is silent.

i want out, i want out, i want out.

hold my hand, and promise me that it’s over.

—

at night, we wander through the old town of krakow, come across a live musc club, where a stunning woman with a flower in her hair sings old jazz standards.

Like this:

Related

5 responses

>God, you’re a braver girl than I… Anne Frank House got me, don’t think I could handle the concentration camps. But, from every bad experience comes knowledge, understanding and all those good things: so i’m sure you’ve just indulged in some self-improvement, no matter how unpleasant your method may have been!!See you in Zurich, and before then I hope you have many more adventures (though more of the Jenga variety and less of the millions-were-murdered-here variety) xoxo

God, you’re a braver girl than I… Anne Frank House got me, don’t think I could handle the concentration camps. But, from every bad experience comes knowledge, understanding and all those good things: so i’m sure you’ve just indulged in some self-improvement, no matter how unpleasant your method may have been!!See you in Zurich, and before then I hope you have many more adventures (though more of the Jenga variety and less of the millions-were-murdered-here variety) xoxo

>ps. I don’t hate Luxembourg- I count that as one of the best places I saw on my little sojour- what i did say was that there seemed to be a debilitating drought of desirable men… and let’s be honest that non-opening window was bound to lead to some unhappy camper syndrome.

ps. I don’t hate Luxembourg- I count that as one of the best places I saw on my little sojour- what i did say was that there seemed to be a debilitating drought of desirable men… and let’s be honest that non-opening window was bound to lead to some unhappy camper syndrome.

Christine Estima

Christine Estima

As a half-Portuguese, half-Lebanese, feminist, novelist, hipster, atheist, charlatan, blogger, backpacker, playwright, bookworm, film critic, bon vivant and lovertine, I began my journey of petulance and precociousness in the suburbs of Montreal and Toronto. I thusly figured I'd turn out to be a nun, or a writer. A few years at a Catholic school cured me of the first disease.

I cannot wear white without spilling something on it, but you'll still find me, most likely, in the fridge at 4am.

I mean well.

Want to know more about me? You can find my bio, writing portfolio, and media coverage at ChristineEstima.com